As the Shadows Fade
by Coral Iris
Summary: After SegaAM2's KageMaru's village of Hagakure has been burnt down by J6, he finds himself wandering the woods in need of a new place to call home.Note: Chapters will alternate between points of view of the two main characters.Virtua Fighters
1. Chapter 1

As the Shadows Fade

Chapter 1

"Karen, wait up!" I shouted as I ran toward our porch carrying a large armful of firewood. But, like the wonderful sister she is, she not only stopped and waited for me, but she decided she would take the armful of wood from me and carry them into the house. Her gentle smile made me feel all warm inside, despite the biting December wind.

"Ruby, you're one of a kind," she said, laughing. "Even a small armful of wood will send you teetering and tottering up the porch stairs!"

"I know. It's funny sometimes, except for the times when you're not here to help me," I said, giving her an affectionate punch to the shoulder. She smiled at me as we both stepped into the dimly lit but rather warm house.

As I took off my dirt-caked boots, I looked around and was surprised to find Mom and Dad still sleeping soundly on the futon. They were usually the first ones up, and would always tease Karen and me for being such sleepy heads. "Early to sleep, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise," Mom always liked to say. She had always been one to quote sayings like that, and Karen and I often scared ourselves whenever we found ourselves repeating these quotes to our cousins if they ever misbehaved, wanting to stay up past bedtime. The last things that we'd wanted for our lives were to become exact copies of our parents.

We crept around the cottage as quietly as possible, being careful not to upset any dishes or pans. I got to work on building the fire while Karen made dough for the daily bread that we often sold at the large open-air market. I stared into the livening embers as I listened to Karen's rolling pin, the ticking clock, and, on this particular morning, Mom's and Dad's inhumanly loud snoring. It was all VERY comforting, and I could not imagine my day starting without these simple comforts. The modest cherry wood clock hanging on the far corner of the living room, the paintings of Grandma and grandpa, the old but remarkably in tune and richly resonant grand piano, the mahogany bookshelves lined with heavy, leather-bound volumes, and the velvet-shaded curtains of the large front window were all home to Karen and me.

The marble fireplace with its almost over decorated mantle was now blazing and alive with flames as Karen and I set the pan of bread to baking. Patches of sunlight filtered through the partially opened velvet curtains and fell softly on Mom's thick, flowered rugs. She had made them herself, Karen said, while she had been pregnant with me. I ran my fingers through the woven flowers and vines as I watched Karen once again take up the dress she'd been working on for the better part of the past month. For the large full skirt, Karen had chosen to use a champagne silk, hemming it with emerald lace and tiny, glass multicolored beads. The bodice of the dress was to be made of shiny, black velvet with a V-neck that was to be surrounded by rhinestones. The shoes, she said, would be finished in just under a week and would be worked on last since "they're my favorite part of the outfit."

She worked with such care and patience, seemingly to almost nurture the individual threads and fabrics to take shape. I smiled to myself as I thought about the time I'd tried my hand at sewing and knitting. Mom had tried to teach me the domestic arts, reasoning that I was to become a wife and mother someday and would need to care for my children and husband.

"Now Ruby," she began, "your needlework must not be only practical but artistic and graceful," she said, threading a needle not two inches from my eyeballs.

"Your husband will admire the great beauty of your work as well as its durability and practicality. Every time he puts that sweater on, you must see a smile on his face. It must remind him of you and you alone, or you've not done the job well," she continued, taking my hands and forcing my fingers into painful twisted knots and entangling them with the numerous strands of thread that had somehow birthed themselves out of the needle's eye.

As she went on for another hour and lectured me on the importance for a woman to be "adept in the domestic arts," I nodded and responded when necessary. I remembered with a smile that Karen just looked on helplessly as Mom tried to mold me into the perfect seamstress.

"Poor Ruby," she'd said afterward when we were both getting ready for bed, "you looked like Her Majesty trying to change the oil on a car! It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that you clearly weren't meant for the domestic life."

"Well," I said with a sigh of resignation, "society calls for it, I guess. If you're a baby girl, you grow up in your early years playing with dolls and using them as a learning tool for housewifery and such. Then, you become an older child, around ten years old I'd say, you'll learn about the arts of domesticity and use them to care for your future husband and children. That, according to society, is the life a woman is supposed to live."

"Well, that's only what most people think. Personally, I believe that you were meant for much greater things than that, not that mothers who choose to become housewives aren't important, but you're just not made for that role," she continued, turning over in her bed to face me.

"Well, how do you know that?" I asked, my eyes now trained on her face and waiting for her answer.

"Well, for one thing, you've always been very gifted in the area of the performing arts. You sing, play the piano, the guitar and the flute, and you've written a musical, which was excellent by the way. You're a very good writer, and you love performing every chance you can get." And just as I was about to ask a question…

"And don't think I've not noticed you locking yourself up in our cellar, of all places, with your book of sheet music in hand and practicing until I've pounded on the door for you to come out and eat something before you faint!" she finished with a smile, throwing her two-ton, pink plush rabbit at me.

After that, we decided to drop the discussion, concluding that I was really meant for something other than housekeeping and childrearing, and a furious pillow fight lasting until three in the morning ensued.


	2. Chapter 2

As the Shadows Fade

Chapter 2

Alone.

Not a soul was in sight as he walked through the forest that surrounded the small village he would be calling home from now on. The sun filtering through the thick tops of the tall sycamores warmed his skin and succeeded in temporarily relieving him of the hollowness that had now taken over his soul. Everything was gone. His people, his village that had been his birthright and sanctuary. Gone. Gone up in flames. All gone because he and his father had not been able to run back in time to save the people that he lived for. His mother? She was gone too. Turned into some fighting machine that he, in the end, had to kill. Just at the thought of her face and the momentary peace that had been in her eyes when he had succeeded in rescuing her just that once rended his heart in half and again.

The path that lay before his mechanically moving feet was littered with leaves that had been late in falling off the trees. It was mid December now, but the snow still had not come. A few years ago when it had been like this, many in his village had counted their blessings that their crops had flourished so well and had even now continued to grow, but the sages of the mountains had warned of a cruel but late winter. They had often told him to advise his villagers to store three times the usual amount of food in their homes and to preserve as much fish and meat as was needed to last them for at least six months. Many had done according to his advice, but many took the extra precaution and had already begun preserving and storing enough for them and their neighbors. He remembered with a slight smile crossing his lips that he had been one of them.

Hours had been spent gathering the food, and he had remembered with fondness that they had made somewhat of a festival out of it. Men, women, and children traveled in small groups of five or six and carried baskets on their arms, picking whatever they could manage to preserve from the fields. What had already ripened was to be taken in and prepared as a feast for the entire village afterward, and all the children were to make desserts and decorate them.

But now as he stared up at the rays of sunlight that had now begun to flood the moss-crowded forest floor, he felt a long-forgotten stinging sensation well up behind his dark, brown eyes. The sharp lines of the dark sycamores quickly blended in and blurred in his vision with the bright, yellow dandelions that grew around them. He sat down on a nearby stump and tried his best to ignore this feeling.

He was a man. A man who had come from ten generations of legendary warriors who fought in the shadows in their endeavors to protect Hagakure and uphold its values. He had endured many tests and had triumphed over them all. From physical torture to psychological torture, he had emerged victorious and had proven himself worthy of his place as the leader of Hagakure.

Yet, as he shut his eyes tightly against this stinging sensation, pictures of his village flashed before his eyes, and the guilt washed over him, relentlessly pounding at his sense of honor and pride.

He had passed every test, every trial, and had overcome every obstacle that had been placed in his path, but he could not save the very village and people that he loved. They had counted him as their savior and guardian, and he had failed them!

He buried his face in his hands as this final realization tore away at the last bricks of the walls that he had put up around his heart. The wounds and scars now opened themselves, letting billows of painful memories and bittersweet dreams cascade down his smooth, tan cheeks. As the sobs shook his solid frame, wells of pent-up emotion and pain freed themselves of his icy grip. His father had taught him long ago that for a man to cry openly was a shame.

Kage-Maru was to stand strong, rooted and grounded in his honor and strength. He was to face even the most cruel and harsh storm with a face of stone. Anything short of this would be a disgrace.

As the tears continued falling, the wounds and scars seemed to grow deeper and more painful with every breath. It was as if the very act of letting these emotions run free and uninhibited only added more salt to them. For years, he had pushed these feelings aside, and he had been successful for a time. But now, as the forest embraced him warmly in its blanket of bird song and chirping crickets, the numbness of keeping to the traditions of the honor code lifted as tears now flowed freely.


End file.
